Treachery at Lancaster Gate (20 page)

Pitt had introduced himself simply with his name and rank. Now he met the man's startled look grimly. “Of Special Branch,” he added. “I am sorry to inconvenience your Christmas, and my own, but there has been another bombing, and I'm afraid the matter will not wait until we have enjoyed Christmas dinner.”

The man blanched. “I assure you, Commander Pitt, if we had any knowledge at all of such matters, we would already have informed the police.”

“I need to speak to Mr. Cornard regarding an old case. You will be good enough to give me his address,” Pitt replied. “Immediately.”

The man lifted his chin sharply into the air in a gesture of defiance, but he complied.

A
N HOUR LATER
P
ITT
was sitting in the rather chilly library of Mr. Walter Cornard's home, listening to the occasional bursts of laughter from the withdrawing room where clearly family guests were enjoying themselves. He had passed the huge, brightly decorated tree in the hall, and many garlands and wreaths of holly and ivy, woven with scarlet ribbons. Cut-glass bowls of chocolates and candied fruit sat on the side tables, and red candles burned on the mantel.

The library fire was unlit and not much warmth crept through from the rest of the house. Clearly this room was not intended to be used today.

Pitt stood up and paced back and forth to stop himself feeling even colder. He hoped Alexander Duncannon's supplier of opium had turned up. At least Alexander had enough money to pay for it. Probably the man would come. It was his business.

This wretched thought was interrupted when Cornard finally arrived. His face was flushed with warmth. He had probably been enjoying the pre-Christmas delicacies.

He did not hold out his hand to Pitt. His resentment at the intrusion was palpable.

“Pitt, my butler said,” he began. “What on earth is it that makes you intrude on a man's family at this hour on Christmas Eve? This had better be damned important, or I'll know the reason for it!”

“I would rather be at home with my family, too,” Pitt replied tartly. “And I'm sure Inspector Ednam would, instead of in his grave, with his widow and children sitting with a funeral wreath on the door rather than one with red ribbons on it.”

Cornard shut the door hard. “What the devil are you talking about?” he demanded. “My man said something about a bombing. I know nothing about bombs, anarchists, traitors, or anyone else in your…area of work. I'd be obliged if you would explain yourself as briefly as possible, and then be on your way.” He remained standing, a statement that he intended their conversation to be very brief indeed.

Pitt sat down in one of the armchairs and looked up at Cornard. Once he would have been intimidated by such a man, even if he had managed to conceal it, but that time was long past.

“I will be as quick as I can, Mr. Cornard. The case at the root of my inquiry is that of Dylan Lezant, who was hanged for the murder of James Tyndale some two years ago. August the ninth, I believe, was the date of his death, if you need reminding.”

“I do not need reminding,” Cornard snapped back. “It was a clear-cut case. Tragic. The young man was addicted to opium and it had ruined his life. Damaged his brain, it would seem. He went to meet a dealer in an alley. The police intercepted him. Lezant shot Tyndale, apparently a passerby, although that is open to question. The police arrested Lezant right there on the scene. Gun was in his hand. You would have read all that in the court records, or in the damn newspapers, for that matter. What on earth are you doing here?”

“You must have looked at the evidence very closely,” Pitt observed.

“Of course I did. What is your point?”

“Why was Lezant armed? Tell me more about him. Where did he come from? Who were his family? How did he become addicted to opium?”

“I have no idea!” Cornard was annoyed. “It was my job to prosecute him, not to defend him. I have no idea how he became an addict, nor do I care. I certainly don't know why he had a gun, but unquestionably he did! Maybe he intended to rob the dealer rather than pay him!” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes wide. “The man was an opium addict, for God's sake! He did it. The police saw it, and they all testified to it. The facts are beyond doubt.”

“What about the other man who was there and escaped? Did you ever find him?”

Cornard gave a little snort of derision.

“Alexander Duncannon? He came forward. There's no proof whatever that he was there, and the police deny it was him.” Cornard took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh of patience far stretched. “Look, Pitt—or whatever your name is—it was a wretched case. A grubby transaction between an addict and his supplier was interrupted by the police. The addict panicked and shot Tyndale, who may or may not actually have been the supplier.”

“Had he any opium?” Pitt interrupted.

“No. It seems more likely the supplier never came.” Cornard shifted his weight. “He may have been as innocent as he looked. For heaven's sake, man, dealers in opium can be anybody! Just as users of it can be. You would be amazed who takes the stuff! God knows what pain people have and find they can't endure.”

“Either of the body, or of the mind,” Pitt agreed. “What did you learn about Tyndale? Any income he couldn't account for by whatever he did for a living? What did he do? The court records didn't say.”

Cornard sighed and sat down in the chair nearest the fire. He took a box of matches from the scuttle and lit the paper, wood, and logs that were laid out. He watched it for a minute or two while the flames licked upward and he was sure it was going to take.

“He was a seller of rare books and manuscripts,” he replied at length. “His income was erratic because his sales were, but it seemed he was gifted at it, because he made a very comfortable living, and his records were all in order. He had an excellent accountant, and we checked it all.”

“So you looked and found no evidence of his buying or selling opium, or dealing it with anyone else?”

“None. Which isn't to say he didn't, but we found nothing we could take to court.”

“Did you believe he was a dealer?” Pitt said bluntly, staring at Cornard's face.

“No, honestly I didn't.”

“Then he was a perfectly innocent passerby?”

“Apparently.”

“So why did Lezant shoot him, instead of the closest policeman to him? Seems a stupid thing to do.”

“For God's sake, man, I don't know! Maybe Tyndale saw what was happening and got in the way, thinking he was helping? Or misunderstood the whole thing, and thought the police were robbers attacking Lezant?”

“Weren't they in uniform? The report suggests they were. If they weren't, then maybe Lezant took them for robbers also? Maybe he thought they were all out to steal the opium?”

“Hardly likely, since the dealer hadn't turned up!” Cornard pointed out.

“Unless Tyndale was the dealer after all?”

“Then why the devil would Lezant shoot him?” Cornard said.

“That was exactly Duncannon's point,” Pitt agreed. “That Lezant didn't shoot him. He says the police did.”

“That's patently ridiculous,” Cornard shook his head. “For a start, they weren't armed.”

“So they said. Lezant also said he wasn't armed.”

Cornard was incredulous. “And you think the court should have taken the word of a drug addict come to buy opium illegally, over the police who apprehended him? What's the matter with you, man?”

“Then it comes back to the question as to why Lezant would shoot Tyndale, a passerby? By all accounts Tyndale was a thoroughly decent man who had nothing whatever against him. And the police did check very thoroughly. He lived locally, and it is the obvious conclusion that he was on his way home and stumbled on the police raid on an opium sale. Except that the police have no dealer to show for it, Lezant said there wasn't one, the police are denying that Duncannon was ever there, and Tyndale is dead.”

“So it's a mess!” Cornard said irritably, poking at the fire again. “No one is denying that. But Tyndale was shot, a gun of the right size and caliber, recently fired, was taken from Lezant. What other evidence is there…reasonably?”

“Not a lot of choice,” Pitt admitted. “But Duncannon's story is that he was there, and Tyndale was shot by accident, by the police. He escaped, and Lezant didn't. The police shouldn't have had a gun, and certainly weren't going to admit having fired it wildly and hit a respectable citizen passing by—even if they did jump to the mistaken conclusion that he was the dealer they were expecting.”

Cornard was looking increasingly unhappy.

“What was Lezant like?” Pitt asked, suddenly realizing he had no idea.

Cornard looked taken aback. He seemed to search his memory and then look for words. He was unhappy when he answered. “Quite a decent sort of young man. Overemotional, but I think he knew even then that he hadn't a chance. He was good looking, in a quiet sort of way. Very fine eyes, darkest blue I ever saw.”

“Did he ever admit his guilt?”

“No, never. I don't know what he told Hayman, who was defending him, but he insisted to me that he was innocent, right to the end.” Suddenly emotion choked his voice. “I hate prosecuting a young man to the gallows! Why on earth did you have to come and remind me of this on Christmas Eve, of all days?”

Pitt hesitated before answering. How much should he tell this man? Cornard had been open with him, even though Pitt had intruded into his home, interrupting what was clearly a family occasion. Did something about the case still trouble him? Or was it just a professional courtesy?

“Because the case isn't over,” Pitt answered candidly. “At least I don't think it is.”

“He's dead and buried!” Cornard stared at him. “What has it to do with Special Branch? Whoever blew up your buildings, it wasn't Dylan Lezant.”

“Are you certain now that he killed Tyndale? I know what the jury said, but what about you?”

“No, I'm not. Why does it matter? He wasn't an anarchist. I don't think any mad bomber is trying to avenge him, if that's what you're imagining.”

“I don't think it's vengeance,” Pitt said honestly. “I think it's an effort to force us to reopen the case. Not for revenge…to clear Lezant's name.”

“And you believe Alexander Duncannon is behind it? Why? And why now? Lezant has been gone over two years.”

“What if Duncannon was telling the truth, and he was there?”

“And the police shot Tyndale? That makes no sense. Why would they?”

“Because he wasn't the dealer, and maybe refused to stop. He couldn't hand over the opium because he didn't have it. Perhaps he argued with them? Challenged them?”

“If a citizen's getting in the way, arguing with you, you don't shoot him dead.” Cornard turned away, disgusted. “You warn him, and then you arrest him. For heaven's sake, man, they would see the police uniforms! If he had any honest business there, he would have explained it, and gone on his way.”

“What if the police weren't in uniform?” Pitt suggested.

Cornard gave a heavy sigh and moved his shoulders uncomfortably, as though suddenly his jacket did not fit him.

“That wasn't put forward as a possibility,” he said. “It…it seemed as if there was really very little to argue about. There still is. I'm not sure why you are pursuing it.” Now he was openly questioning, his eyes bleak and curious.

“Duncannon has tried for two years to say that that particular police station was corrupt, and no one would listen to him. Now he's lost patience. He's ill himself. Perhaps he doesn't think he has all that much time to play with.”

Cornard looked pale. “So he's bombing police until someone does listen?”

“There were no casualties in the bombing this morning. But we were beginning to let the case go, at least until…for a while. Over Christmas and New Year. Now I can't, much as I would like to.”

“I see.” From the expression on Cornard's face, he really did see. “Hell of a business. I think Duncannon's mad. If he's into the opium as well—and why else would he have been there at that buy?—then it's eating away at his brain. I've heard it can give people delusions, hallucinations. Poor devil…”

“It would be a convenient explanation.”

“You'd better go and see Hayman. He won't appreciate it at this hour, but we can't have any more bombs. Don't know who'll be next. Maybe not another empty building.”

Pitt had not needed reminding of that. He did not argue. Cornard gave him Hayman's address, and he thanked him and left.

T
HE HOUSE WAS NOT
far away, but it took Pitt nearly three-quarters of an hour through rain and heavy traffic before he was reluctantly admitted into Hayman's morning room. It was another ten minutes after that before Hayman himself came in. He was a slender man wearing a dark blue velvet smoking jacket, clearly having relaxed after dinner and begun the lazy part of the evening when he could do as he pleased. He looked to be in his late fifties, and possibly had no children still at home.

“What is it you think I can do for Special Branch, Mr. Pitt?” he said with a frown, rather more of confusion than annoyance. His face was lean, his colorless hair receding off a high forehead. “Do sit down, man!” he added, taking the green leather armchair opposite the one nearest Pitt. It was a pleasant room and the embers of the fire were still warm.

Pitt obeyed. The comfort of the chair made him momentarily aware of how tired he was. His back ached and his feet were cold and wet.

“Do you recall the Dylan Lezant case, Mr. Hayman?”

Hayman frowned. “Of course I do. Miserable business. Why does Special Branch care? He was an unhappy young man, something of a rebel against society, because he was out of step with it. Not an unusual thing for a young man with time on his hands, and perhaps too much imagination. But he was no serious anarchist. Wanted social change, certainly, but so do many of us. He wouldn't have bombed anyone to get it. Anyway, he's been dead a couple of years now, poor devil.”